Blood donation: an act of solidarity or an opaque business?
Few Christmas scenes are as familiar as the queue of donors at the health centre. But who is actually in that queue? Repeated observations point to a very specific profile: mostly young native-born women, with a 70% female presence and zero representation from certain groups. Meanwhile, in the emergency room of the same centre, the mix is radically different. The uncomfortable question hangs in the air.
The invisible filter of the health questionnaire
The donation process includes a questionnaire that, disguised as "risk behaviours", excludes lgtb men, the promiscuous, people with tattoos, travellers to exotic countries and, unofficially, anyone who doesn't fit the right profile. The personal interview with the nurse becomes a subjective filter. If you don't fit in, you're out. And the professionalism of the needle work, according to some accounts, leaves a lot to be desired: bruises, damaged nerves and drips that barely flow. Hard to build donor loyalty with that kind of treatment.
The blood business: the Grifols trail
Beyond demographics, some point to the business side. Donated blood ends up in a lucrative market where companies like Grifols process and sell plasma derivatives. A significant share of donations in Spain is exported. The donor rolls up their sleeve and the system pockets the profits. Some, once they learn where their blood goes, decide to donate only for direct relatives or stop altogether. Others, after the pandemic, lost all trust in a system that discriminated against the unvaccinated precisely when solidarity was needed most.
Solidarity broken?
The result is a ticking time bomb for blood reserves. While talk of "my solidarity is not for free" grows, the official campaigns repeat the same old Christmas messages. But the donor profile doesn't change. Perhaps the real question is not who the blood is meant for, but how the person giving it is treated.
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